


Black Swan

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Dancer Auston, Dehumanization, Descent into Madness, Genderbent Play, Groping, M/M, Makeup Artist Mitch, Obsession, Original Female Character - Freeform, Perfectionism, Subversion of Black Swan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: Everything is background noise when he makes his first appearance, the stage lights exaggerating the glitter on his cheeks and the spotlight tracing his steps piece by piece. All eyes are on him and it’s his moment. Every process in his brain turns to autopilot for steering and it’s like Auston never existed. It’s Odilon’s turn.





	Black Swan

**Author's Note:**

> This story doesn’t follow the narrative structure of Swan Lake or Black Swan, just to be clear. The original Swan Lake depicts the swan queen/white swan falling into an unfortunate and tragic romance with a prince--said prince is later tricked by a double, a black swan who impersonates the white swan and long story short, everyone dies. This is the result of that with a few intermissions here and there.
> 
> Odette (white swan) - Tavares (Otto)  
> Odile (black swan) - Matthews (Odilion)  
> Prince Siegfried (the prince) - Original Character (Alissa, Princess Siegfried)
> 
> The story is a result of knowing that Auston can figure skate to some degree because of the technique he was brought up on. So I made him a ballet dancer. Enjoy. :]

After his arm was injured, it was if someone had hit the pause button on his life. A burst of amnesia had hit him, his mind prisoner in his stupid flesh body as his co-workers and partners cooed and proceeded to visit with canisters and crockpots full of various injury-remedies, hoping to bring him healing. It didn’t exactly bandage the problem, not when immediately after they returned back to their livelihoods, spinning pirouettes on stage as he was allocated to the sidelines, helpless but to watch. _Eight weeks_ , they said, to make a full recovery and get back to lifting. Eight weeks was a death sentence. It’d effectively stunted any hope of making productions that year because they tacked on four weeks of physical therapy before they’d sign off on a note.

Piece by piece, his core deteriorated. The line of perfect symmetry down his face was always intercepted by the sling his right arm remained present in, a bulky black thing that, combined with the sprain in his calf, disturbed his sleeping patterns as much as it did his career. Worse, it avalanched pity on him. There was nary a stranger in line at the grocery store that wouldn’t don the puppy dog eyes and ask, _what happened_ , following through with an _oh, you poor thing_.

Only he was qualified to feel bad. He was the one sorely affected. The people he met were putting on a performance of their own, and they were terrible actors.

 _Few experiences are more stressful than an injury_ , his therapist had said; _take care of yourself, eat well, and reframe it as an opportunity_. Her jilted, almost mechanical speech made it sound as though she were reading from a Wikipedia script. He’d been ushered out of his clinic the second the next patient was hustled through and it became an hour of his life he wouldn’t get back. Unbeknownst to her, he flipped her the finger as he retreated back into the nearby bus shelter like a whipped puppy.

Even despite all the waiting, more specifically the _Netflix_ binges he went on because he felt too sick to let the outside air contaminate him, the rehearsing dates come too fast. The metaphorical coffin he’d been shoved into was open for the vultures to pick at and the second the doctor’s handwriting had spiralled cursive loops onto the veins of his arm his dancing was fair game. Tryouts were a given, even if his physical health was shaky and his cheekbones had become so pronounced he looked like an animated skeleton swimming in hardwood.

He takes a deep breath. He’s home.

Years of auditioning plants him in a role for a sophisticated production of _Swan Lake_ at a local cultural venue that serves as a theatre for both professional and amateur performances, a melting pot if you will. He doesn’t see it until he’s braved his way through five rounds of contestants, facing off against men in all forms that wear leotards so tight there’s nothing left to be interpreted. He tries to immerse himself in the abyss of the discipline in hopes of reaching greatness and is rewarded with callbacks.

It isn’t like the first time though, the magic isn’t there. The elements of ballet are so ingrained in him that there’s no longer any enjoyment. He’s hollow--the only thing inside him is the desire to succeed. He’s already reached his turning point and is on the path of no return. The taste of attention is now dull, he takes the compliments with a brief nod and moves on.

He’s done being mediocre and he pushes for something different. Not friendship but success. No compromise. He takes the part and plays it mercilessly, with a provocative thrust of the hips when he poses. It’s no wonder that when the final cast is posted both online and in person, he’s the black swan, Odilon.

 

The totality of the casting pits him against the Otto to his Odilon, who happens to be an older man practicing on ballet barres in the private studios, right in front of pristine glassless mirrors. There’s an ambiguity to him and how he arouses the princess’ dancer’s unconventional sultry looks. She’s omniscient, evading Auston so that he can never read her face, like a dream he can’t catch. The two of them are visual mirages and nothing more.

All eyes are on the princess and the white swan, who will eventually come to copulate in a series of pointe work and increasing drama as dictated by the script they will follow. Auston, on the other hand, deviates. His antisocial tendencies force the dancers to connect the dots in order to understand his intentions; he never lays himself bare. The entire dance is one neverending linear conflict and he is the mister of evil, the player of deception who never reveals his hand of cards. So far, he’s sewn himself into the role, leaving not an inch of stitching to pull at. Not again.

On the list of requirements and side pieces he’ll be concerning himself with is the extensive list of makeup products used on his face, all outlined in italics that slant the words so far right he had difficulty reading them. It’s more manageable on paper than it is in person though; the trial run is nearly an hour long because of the testing period. He’s never seen so many products in his life and in minutes, they’re wiping his face down with a white base to make him look paler, the costume designers taking measurements of his arms to help fit the traditional feathered appendages he’ll be suited in.

He knows he’ll be dancing with another co-star, a beautiful female dancer that’d come all the way from Alaska. She has a few years on him; the pictures he sees detail her untainted complexion and long, streamlined brown hair that reaches her mid-back in a whip-like fashion. Whatever they’ve used on her eyes is powerful. The smokey, dark smoulder she casts could enchant any man and there’s a prick in his throat when he has to return the magazine back to the dresser drawer so that they can mix together the cream with a pale mask.

It’s all new to him, the makeup part, that is. The most he’d had done on him before is adding some blush to his cheeks combined with eyeliner to help project his colour. The ladies in front of him are pulling out bronzers and blush casings with hive-like patterns containing all shades of pink on the spectrum. They unveil a tapered brush that tickles the hollows of his cheeks, painfully whitewashed out by the creams that separate his head from his torso in colour.

That’s the least of his worries, soon they’re waving a pointy eyeliner brush in front of his face, caking it with mounds of black eyeliner that they trace down his eyebrow to the bridge of his nose on both eyes. He sees them recreating a wing-like pattern up his face, returning their attention back to his eyes only to properly outline them and exaggerate his eyelashes. It’s hard to keep his eyes open so long; it feels as though they’ve dried out.

The remaining touches involve them filling in the black patches, the holes they forget the first time around splotched in with silver cream that’s smudged together to make feathers. Looking in the mirror after is odd; his eyes never looked so big before. They take up more space than his forehead. On the other hand, it grants him a sense of anonymity he can’t afford to give up. There, in front of him, is the black swan prince. The very persona he dedicates himself to is the person he’s looking at, and it’s like there’s no doppelganger at all. He’s him.

 

His predictions are right, his co-star, who is both beautiful and well accomplished, can fire off barrel jumps like orders at a fast food restaurant. She eclipses his dancing and takes charge of the lifts and jumping, leaving Auston as a side piece, a column even, to lean on. After all, she is his princess. He’s the forbidden fruit for her to bite into.

He steals the latter half of the show though, composed of a black and gold colour scheme that twinkles in the lowlight of the stage. He glimmers with the idea of a sleazy but sexy pull, opposite of the fragility of the white swan. Every turn he makes is just short of sex from head to toe. It’s a release, but not of himself. Just being up on stage and surveying where he’ll be performing is his body unveiling a tightly-wound tension.

But dance isn’t about personal desire--at least ones that don’t contribute to the production. He considers the theatre his partner and so extracurricular commitments pale in comparison. His mother doesn’t hear from him for days, the garbage isn’t taken out to the basement’s designated collection room, and the strawberries inside of his fridge rot. Grocery shopping in itself is tedious so he limits himself when possible, spending hours in front of his television on a beat-up yoga mat stretching to old nineties workout videos. The mornings are designated for warm up.

He can’t be second best to John, otherwise, the story lacks tension. He needs to make himself up to be the ideal prince charming and that results in more sacrifices; a never-ending spiral he can’t keep track of. Chunks of his social life are cut: annoying people are subsided in his conscience. All that matters is his posture and the man staring back at him through the two-way glass.

 

Auston hates the makeup artists. _Hate_ , people will say, _is a big, strong, powerful word._ It shouldn’t apply to the blending brushes and eyeliner kits the little doves take with them, powering up his face with so many layers of creamy dust that he can’t recognize himself anymore. The truth is, he hates that power being exerted over him. The makeup artists can disguise any face and the intentions that come with it. And he has an ugly face.

Ugly both metaphorically and literally. Under his eyes are bags so deep and purple they need to blotch it once with the concealer they pat underneath his eye then mask their work with a bright highlighter to the corners of his whites, succeeded by setting the makeup with a thin layer of power. It’s a tedious process that extends to his wrinkles, moles, and occasional pimples.

The first artist he had was a girl named Molly, who’d he’d only known through her name tag clip-on seated right on top of her breast. She must’ve had great references and resumes to get the job because behind stage she was a mess. She wasn’t even his only artist--there were many that worked around him in droves--and yet, for almost every show or mock practice, she would poke him in the eye or set her weight on his bad arm and threaten to dislocate it. When she patted down his face she used a show of unnecessary force that made him want to both cough and flinch; the latter of which was not a wise tactic because then she’d go _tsk tsk_ , mirroring his movements with a snide little _hold still_ so she could finish.

It was hard to bow to her demands, harder to have her go ballistic because he’d smeared his eyeliner. Weeks before their debut, he lost it. Whether it was the caffeine boost from his coffee, the all-nighter the day before, or just his temper, he has no idea, but witnesses said he lunged for her without hesitation, fully intending to bring harm to her by wringing his hands around her neck. Of course, he denied the claims. He didn’t know what happened himself, but his agent said it was lucky they didn’t fire him. He told them they were lucky he didn’t _quit_ , because the role was his and no one else could play it better.

They forced him to take two vacations days, during which he didn’t go outside and lived off of bottled water and salad leaves. He wasn’t really wanting food anyway; hunger was such a meaningless concept. The television was on the third static channel eating up his hydro bill as he lounged in his bedroom with the curtains pulled taut, gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

Two days later and Molly is nowhere to be seen--they say she’d been relocated to help Alissa’s group although he severely doubts her name survived the blacklisting from the record. The straighteners and puffy black sweeper brushes were removed from her station, in their place a single box of tissues and some cotton wipes. There’s a man checking his phone, leaning against the chair when he enters that only straightens up when Auston clears his throat.

“Heya,” he says, all tongue and cheek and looking like a complete novice in his presence. “I’m Mitch.” He sticks a bony hand out, paste-white from the colour palette in his other hand. Mitch is not an artist’s name; it’s hysterical and at the same time, teases him.

“I’m playing Odilon,” he introduces himself, because Odilon and Auston are one. The artist doesn’t paint Auston’s face, he paints the black swan’s. It’s a crude, deluged response he hopes turns Mitch off but the opposite occurs. Mitch’s strange fixation only increases, his lips pursing in the face of adversity.

“Odilon, I’ll be your makeup artist,” he replies. “Please, sit down.”

There’s a wonderment present, from playing along. It’s potent, having someone encapsulate nostalgia and untainted purity. If he’s the black swan, Mitch is the white. It’s a touch of vulnerability that translates into perfectionism when he’s sat down and Mitch kills personal space to further cement Auston in his delusion, the same thing Auston does to his onlookers on stage every day.

 

Over the course of practices, his appetite lopsides itself and becomes as convoluted as the drills he performs. It’s a tug-of-war and not an ideological one. It’s knowing his stomach is grieving what little food inside of it as his mind remains ambivalent. He’s a working machine and one that’s efficient. He _feeds_ off the desperation of the people around him and uses it to better himself. That’s his fuel.

Mitch notices pretty early on that he sustains himself with nothing but a fantasy and that complicates everything. The man is always chomping down on Caesar salad between routines, so it makes perfect sense that someone as pudgy and entitled as him would try to dictate Auston’s own weight routine.

“You should have some,” he says the day before the performance for the local school children when Auston has nearly withered away into dust. In his hands lay a bowl of oatmeal, powdered with cinnamon sugar until it’s almost completely brown. Auston doesn’t fall for the easy-set disguise, it was picked specifically for him--Mitch hasn’t scooped out even a teaspoon for himself.

He makes a gracious show of taking the bowl from Mitch, placing it directly under his nose so that his nostrils can get a whiff of the conflicting scents steaming from it. It doesn’t even make him break a thought about severing his oath of hunger and that’s likely the most pitiful aspect of it. There isn’t a thing Mitch knows about the real him.

After his hands have been sufficiently warmed by the bowl he walks over to the nearby trashcan and turns it over to dump the contents out. It hits the bottom of the empty trash bag with a satisfying plop. Mitch isn’t the least bit surprised when he turns back, just resigned. It’s his fault really; he should stick his own in his own business and keep it there. He didn’t need a babysitter.

 

He’s there for the premiere, in body but not in spirit. In truth, his life begins and ends with the curtains he looks from, the barrier between himself and the thousands of spectators crammed into their little slice of the city. Every cough, sneeze, and indication of life they present is a brick hurled in his direction, a reminder that he’s a picture moving for their reality.

It’s not excitement but a diet contrast of it that comes over him. He’s fidgeting as he’s having his makeup done and the release from the monotonous cycle of neutral expressions and stiff upper lips has Mitch more excited than usual. He’s waving around his brushes as if they’re weapons for him to wield against some great evil.

“I think you’re going to do great out there.” Auston rolls his eyes, _of course he is_. “You look lighter on your feet every day.”

“I already know that,” he says, because it’s true. He’s dangerously close to reaching perfection when he dances. It’d be foolish to expect otherwise after the hours spent pirouetting in front of his bedroom mirror, forgoing sleep and any other basic need in favour of the pursuit of greatness.

“Well, I’m going to make sure you look the part, eyes closed, please.” He’s putting the final touches on the winged eyeliner, putting more pressure on than usual. Auston’s trying to remain still but there’s an itch under his skin. He’s not sure if it’s because of the jitters or if it has something to do with catching Otto’s dancer, John, sucking the face out of Alissa backstage when the set was first being installed but it’s bothersome all the same.

He’d sprinkled in interest for Alissa one too many times and almost shot himself in the foot. To see the conflict resolved not through his own participation but through her choosing a more suitable partner is off-putting but not surprising. He can deal with it--it was his fault for deterring from his dance for so long to pursue other interests.

As if deja-vu, he’s getting his false eyelashes put on when Mitch leans over too much and his arm is pinched. It’s the same arm that’s going to be lifting Alissa for the finishing touch, the resolution to his part in the third act. He’s fiercely protective over it and his annoyance with Mitch and his significant little free-bird act reaches a breaking point. He’s not the one going to be flying.

He lunges but not for Mitch’s throat. Only what feels like minutes later does he realize that his hand is fisted in the crotch area of Mitch’s pants. It did so automatically, he’d been aiming higher, but the hitch in Mitch’s breath is all the same and if anything, the look in his eyes is more wolfish, filled with a sense of trepidation for Auston’s next move.

He wants to ingrain his philosophies in Mitch, confide the evenings spent watching his back because he’d spun a tale where he couldn’t be toppled and now, was balancing dangerously on the edge because of it. He has to practice restraint though, which means letting go of Mitch and backing up a few paces so he wouldn’t do anything impulsive.

It doesn’t erase the awkward period strung between them but it answers a few questions inside of him, all just as ugly as his regular face. He’s almost at the end of his rope but what makes it better is knowing Mitch is staring at his hands with the same uneasy expression he’s sure would be slapped onto Auston’s pie had he not played the game and known the players.

 

His job in theatre is to go out there and show the best face. Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as it sounds. Coming backstage after practice or an act is like bleeding out in shark-infested waters. Every little thing is dissected in the strive for artistic perfection. It canes his backside so badly his skin has hardened up a scab of its own.

His mood is worsened when he finds John loitering in _his_ corner of the dressing room, both hands on Mitch’s hips as he helps him spin on the tips of his toes like the swan men and maidens he leads onstage. Mitch looks absolutely ridiculous: his posture is bent out of shape, his hands are floundering about, and without proper stability in his shoes his feet are going to be sprained to hell. Not to mention, the spinning is a mockery of the art he’s spent his whole life working toward.

It’s a stupid overreaction but he tears John from Mitch’s side and makes himself known, blowing his shoulders up twice their size.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he snarls. “You look so fucking stupid.” He sees a little of himself in Mitch and that’s likely the biggest vulnerability of all.

John’s long since vacated the premises and Auston’s hands are still on Mitch, barking out orders and reinstituting spin after spin. Mitch’s feet could very well be sprained; his hands and face are already so red. Auston doesn’t let him go home until Mitch looks a quarter better. He’s still an abysmal mess but not as bad as before, Auston’s made sure of it.

 

Throughout the different performances, aspects of himself change, most particularly his makeup. He’s unwilling to compromise for second best and he instructs what he wants to be changed. He knows the director will agree: tweaking it does nothing to his choreography.  

Mitch is at his beck and call, making constant changes as he learns and relearns what Auston wants. Auston makes him practice until his hands stop shaking and his strokes are broad. Mitch’s fingernails are caked black by the end of their little experiment: he looks like he’s dug up a grave. Auston, on the other hand, is completely satisfied. His face is rubbed raw by rubbing alcohol and is completely tender but he has never looked more like a swan.

 

It’s not the first or the final performance but on Tuesday, the artistic director emails the entire cast reminding them to look their best for Thursday’s show. It’s the premiere for the mayor and the high council members, reserved for a charity dinner foundation. The people in the audience will be their finest yet.

It’s the height of sophistication and Auston dresses to impress. There’s not a spec of dirt on his person and he’s extremely specific with the stylists about what he wants. Mitch, on the other hand, surprises him. He doesn’t say a single word beyond simple instructions to _turn your head please_ or _close your eyes_. It’s oddly cathartic. It’s also his work too; Mitch was his pet project and over the course of a few weeks he’s transformed Mitch into the professional coworker someone of his status needs.

Everything is background noise when he makes his first appearance, the stage lights exaggerating the glitter on his cheeks and the spotlight tracing his steps piece by piece. All eyes are on him and it’s his moment. Every process in his brain turns to autopilot for steering and it’s like Auston never existed. It’s Odilon’s turn.

Lacing up his shoes for the final time, he takes to the stage like a duck to water. He’s like lightning in a bottle, ready to be unleashed. He makes the jumping, twirling, and floating appear effortless, hogging the midstage to himself as the extras and featured dancers crowd the background and watch as keen as the audience themselves. He makes sure not a single person will be bored; their eyes won’t leave him or he’ll explode like a self-contained supernova.

Alissa returns to the scene in her royal garbs, prancing like a freed deer. They dance around each other, close enough to touch but still fearing the action. Everything about their interaction is paced to keep the sexual tension high but the distance also present. It’s as harmful as it is invigorating.

Every lunge, lift, and pull is executed perfectly. It comes to the finish and the gravity of the centre is pulling them both down. Every moment takes twice as more energy as before and just breaking the airtight seal around them is making him hoarse.

The backing music rises to a crescendo and their dance responds accordingly. It’s, in a heartbeat, more frantic, the twists and turns requiring intensive lower body commitment. He’s suspending his princess, throwing in a grande jete between lifts to alleviate the strain on his back as well allow Alissa to pirouette and croisé for him. There’s not a peep from the audience, entranced by their erotic hunt.

Then comes the final partnering dance lift, meant to suspend disbelief and give the princess her wings. He’s again a testament to the scaffolding of the other dancers, a prop. That time though, there’s a disservice. As she crossed her slippers and makes haste, ready to fly, something about her positioning has doubts surfacing, which is further validated as Auston’s hands snake around her waist and he heaves her up.

The weight allocation is all wrong; as she springs up there’s an energy short-circuiting in his arm and he wobbles, both of them in hand. It’s supposed to be the climatic end to all ends and it certainly feels that way for him because for the first time in the evening, there’s raw adrenaline coursing through him and he feels alive.

In seconds they’re both falling, tipping the scales and there’s no stopping gravity. In front of his princess and the people of the audience, the black swan prince tips and hits his back. Some of the pain is allocated to his bad shoulder and then tapers to the muscles in his right arm which seize like trumpet fire. In one self-destructing moment, he’s flying and the next he’s smeared into the hardwood like a squashed bug, a ripple of destruction in his costume.

The trainers, coaches, and flock of other swans cater to his crying. Alissa is left to fend for herself and defend the cast and crew from the cameras, having alluded the worst of the damages by experience alone. Already it sits in their minds like a weighted stone, _is their suave black swan plucked once and for all; feathers ripped for the final time?_ It’s that frame of thought that energizes him into kneeling, removing himself from the fetal-position he’d assumed. The challenge is not showing how frail he truly is, running a hand down his face to collect composure and realizing as it leaves that there’s black eyeliner staining his palm.

He’s unwilling to be complacent with the idea of retiring from the stage but the director forces a brief recess on his behalf, having Alissa finish her end of the performance as they play off the fall as something intended. Only then does he see the effects of his tumble, that being a long scar of naked skin present, disturbing the black and white pattern set in. Without instruction, he’s at the makeup booth where Mitch is waiting, already descending into madness.

He knows the members of the audience will be waiting with trepidation for the performance to resume but he is hungry. The fall offset a part of himself that was being held back and he reclaims what should be rightfully his with a kiss planted on Mitch’s lips. Whether the man resists or not isn’t detailed; they’re strolling through a fog--almost on hallucinogens--as he imagines losing himself to the tempo of sex. It’s the same sex he enacts on Mitch’s body as if it were a canvas for him to destroy.

Then, he opens his eyes, and he’s sitting in the makeup chair as Mitch leans in close, blotting off the ruined makeup with a sense of urgency much unlike him. Even though his hand-eye coordination is precise, the fingers are so close Auston can see how he trembles. They’re both on edge, but Mitch had always hidden it better. By the time intermission comes to a close, there are two thick lines of war paint on Auston’s face and the visage of a man troubled is replaced by the seductive pull of the black swan.

He gets back on stage and it’s like the damages are gone. The princess is his and as the replacement for the beautiful white swan, he takes his claim seriously and spins her so many times that their courtship becomes more engaging than anything his competition could hope to compare to. They end on an extended double cabriole, her legs fanning out as the falsetto prince effectively sways her judgement.

The act ends with the orchestra voicing its disappointment in the story progression but the crowd supportive despite it, the clap of their hands like waves rolling over the Pacific. He bows and leaves centre stage to let the white swan make a triumphant return, sweat rolling down the furl of his back by his grand performance.

Although the director is sore about his fall he still applauds, as does the rest of the dressing room. Auston makes a beeline to the station for the thrill of seeing Mitch but realizes one second too late that the makeup artist has alluded his web, and the thought alone paralyzes him on the spot. One desperate pursuit through the halls of the backstage later and Mitch is in the men’s room by prop station, washing his face using the paper towels given.

There’s a smack of lipstick on the apple of his cheek, vibrant as fuschia can be, and the arteries in Auston’s neck feel as though they’re about to pop. Only Alissa wears such colours; the dark complexion of the colours wrap around her milky white face to make her lips look even bigger.

He’s cavernous with rage, tackles Mitch to the wall and kisses him, for real. The sacrifices given to get him as far have stripped him of any likeable personality traits. He’s cutthroat and shallow as a pond, obsessed with performance and arranging a show for those to pay for. The dramatic end-game question was the reward.

The adoration from the patrons, the roses, the sealed envelopes, it’s not enough. It’s all mediocrity. With the threat of replacement always held over his head, it’s time to take and Mitch is the given prey. He’s out of control--doesn’t care that they’re in public because he has Mitch’s lips pinched between his teeth and he’s not letting go. At such close range, the black makeup rubs off, creates a mirror image of him in Mitch.

Together, they build off of the passion, faces melting together. Auston doesn’t leave until he’s sure there’s so much makeup rubbed into Mitch’s pores that he’ll never be able to scrub it free. Only once the sweat and release they’ve secreted are shared does he pull off. The outside world is less flattering, a feather storm having erupted between them. Some stick to Mitch, his sweat like glue. Mitch is just as much the black swan now as he is.

His return to the stage is unflattering, pinning him as the ugly duckling. No part of him isn’t profoundly ruined by Mitch, which is how he adores it. Together with his entourage, he’s elaborately twisting, moving, falling, and then, drowning. His fight is extinguished, the crowd is honking mad with love, and he’s on his back in a bed of feathers, finally flightless.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me @cursivecherrypicking on tumblr!


End file.
